Seeing Clearly
by Flaignhan
Summary: He had had suspicions, but they were only ever that.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: **This is part one of two, which might not actually be up until late tomorrow night, or even Monday. Thank you to all who reviewed the post-Empty Hearse trilogy, you're all super. Spoilers in this one too for TEH. Nothing major but still.

* * *

**Seeing Clearly**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

It's no surprise when he finds her there, curled up in John's chair. He had already detected the faintest hint of her perfume in the hallway, spotted a small bobble of wall that had caught on the splintery edge of the bannister. He unbuttons his jacket and walks over to his own chair, sitting down carefully as he tries not make it too obvious that he's dissecting her appearance.

"Did you know?" Her voice is thick, and teamed with the red eyes and glistening tear tracks, it doesn't exactly take _him_ to work out she's been crying. He treads infinitely more carefully than usual though. He knows a lot of things, and he doesn't want to assume he knows which of them he is referring to.

"Know what?"

She looks down, her eyes filling with tears again, and Sherlock shifts uncomfortably in his seat. He is used to women sitting in that chair and crying, asking him to take their cases, but they all fall into the category of temporarily interesting at most, while Molly, she's different. The sight of her sitting in that chair and crying, knowing that there's nothing he can do to fix it, stirs something in his chest. He almost wants to tell her to stop, but now's not the time to be selfish.

Maybe he should have said something after all.

"That he was using me?" She sniffs and looks up, her brown eyes meeting his with a firm gaze. She wants the truth.

"Molly, I barely know - "

"_Rubbish_."

He exhales softly, his fingertips pressed together, elbows resting on knees as he leans forward, trying to think of the least painful way of dealing with this.

"Tell me," he says quietly.

"We got into an argument," she says, drawing her knees up to her chest and wrapping her arms around them. "He kept pushing for the wedding, but I didn't want to rush things."

_Deadline_.

"Go on," he murmurs, staring at the floor, not wanting his expression to give anything away. Normally he wouldn't be too worried, but Molly has a habit of seeing straight through him, which is refreshing and surprising and _deeply_ concerning.

"Later on, I was looking for some new batteries for the TV remote." She lets out a short breath of laughter at the silliness that everything has come to a head over a couple of triple A's.

"And what did you find?"

_A visa_.

"A visa."

He had had suspicions, but they were only ever that. He had not said a word because he knew, in the instance of Molly, that he would not be seeing things clearly. He would be operating with an entirely different mindset than usual, looking for faults, cracks, indiscretions. Anything that might ruin their upcoming vows.

"When does it run out?"

"Couple of months," she says, picking at the cuff of her jumper. "But it wouldn't have mattered if we'd gotten married, because he would have gotten full citizenship." She shakes her head, her teeth pulling on her lower lip. "I'm such an _idiot_."

"_No_."

She looks up at him, a single tear moving steadily down her face.

"No?"

"No," he says, more kindly this time.

"Did you know?" she asks again. She takes a deep breath and sits up a little straighter, steeling herself for the answer.

"I just assumed he'd moved here as a child," he says casually, his hands clasped in his his lap. If he fiddles, it will be plain to see that he's embellishing the truth. "His accent is very good, only the occasional twang, which I thought he must have picked up from his parents."

"You knew, didn't you?" she says disappointedly. She rests her forehead on her knees and closes her eyes.

"Molly, if I'd known that he was _using you_, I wouldn't have let him continue, you know that, don't you?" He needs her to understand that, because that _is_ true. If _anyone_ were using her, he would make sure they ceased, and never even considered it again. She's too decent and deserves much better for him to just sit by and let somebody take advantage.

She doesn't look at him, but raises her head just enough so he can hear her say, "I don't think I know anything anymore."

"Don't be sill- "

"There was a time when you'd have picked him apart and laid him out for me to see," she says in a rush. "Like you did with Jim, except you _missed_ the criminal mastermind bit."

He swallows the lump in his throat, but doesn't say anything. She's quite right. With Moriarty, he had been so focused on how he was _not_ a match for Molly that he was completely blind to the fact that he was the reason they were all in that lab in the first place. But that's the reason he's kept quiet, because whatever he might dredge up about Tom, she might already know, and it would just seem as though he were trying to ruin things for her. Either that, or he's the coward that doesn't want to break the bad news.

"All his family that I met," she says, her voice cracking. "They weren't even…he _paid them_."

"Molly - "

"And his real name is actually _Хома́, _according to his visa," she says softly. She struggles with the accent, but it's hardly worth pointing out the correct pronunciation. It doesn't matter, none of it really matters, now it's all out in the open.

"Ukrainian," Sherlock tells her. "Tom is a fairly close equivalent."

"Right," she says bleakly. She doesn't care. Of course she doesn't care. Her entire future has just fallen apart in a single afternoon and here he is explaining why her scumbag of a fiancé chose the name that he did. She stands abruptly and presses her palms against her face for a few seconds before saying, "I'm gonna…" she points her thumb towards the door and Sherlock stands up and straightens his jacket. She picks up her scarf, about to wind it around her neck, but a lone tear escapes her eye, and she looks up at the ceiling, breathing deeply, trying to maintain her composure as best she can.

"Molly…" he reaches for her, but she pulls away sharply.

"Don't," she says croakily. "I'll just start crying properly and…I know you hate people crying," she's avoiding his gaze, looking everywhere in the flat but at him. She blinks rapidly, but it's in vain, because another tear starts to trickle down her cheek. She wipes at it impatiently, then looks down at the scarf in her hands, fiddling with the edge of it.

"I'd rather you weren't crying, of course."

She lets out a breath of laughter.

"But for your sake, as opposed to mine."

She softens at this, and looks at him with watery eyes, her lower lip trembling as the dam threatens to burst.

"But if you're going to cry, then I'd rather you not do it alone in your flat."

Another tear, and another, and she's biting her lip hard now, in an effort to keep it still. He moves forward, and she doesn't step away this time, so he carefully wraps his arms around her, pulling her close. It takes two and a half seconds for her to break, and the sound stabs at him. He tries to ignore it, concentrates more on supporting her as she sags against him, but the rawness of her sobs is a level of human suffering that he has never experienced, and he can't even begin to imagine what it feels like. It's bad enough just witnessing it, and he wishes he could make it stop, because she doesn't _deserve_ this.

Luckily, the worst of it is over in a couple of minutes, but soon come the apologies, muffled against his chest, and she puts herself down, claiming that she's stupid, she should have seen it, and if he's such an awful person, she ought to be glad to be rid of him. He doesn't try and offer any words of comfort because that's not really his area. He doesn't do comfort, and he certainly doesn't trust himself to say something that's actually helpful to Molly's situation. A hug though, he can manage those. They're difficult to get wrong, and judging by the way she's sinking into him, he's achieved a sufficient amount of success with it.

Without warning, Mrs Hudson appears, knuckles poised to rap on the door jamb before she comes in, but at the sight of Molly she shrinks away, her cheerful expression falling from her face in an instant.

_She all right?_

Sherlock gives her the smallest of nods, and then Mrs Hudson mimes drinking a cup of tea and raises her eyebrows questioningly. Sherlock shakes his head, and Mrs Hudson steps away, pointing to the floor.

_I'll be downstairs if you need anything_.

She descends the stairs quietly, but Molly still hears her, and pulls away from Sherlock, looking over her shoulder to find the source of the noise.

"Just Mrs Hudson," he tells her. "She was wondering if you wanted some tea."

"Oh," Molly says, wiping at her face with the cuffs of her sleeves. "No, I'm all right. Well, I mean I'm not but -"

"You will be."

"Doesn't feel like it," she says. She looks down at the floor and chews on her lower lip. Sherlock takes her by the hand and feels her stiffen at the contact, but ignores it, stepping backwards and guiding her towards his chair. He sits down, pulling her gently with him, so she's sitting on his lap, and she gazes at him, teary eyes filled with confusion, until he wraps his arms around her once more and holds her close. She settles against his chest, her head tucked against his neck, and he tries to think of something decent to say. He wishes Mary were here - she would be far better at helping Molly with this. They would drink wine and share stories and perhaps it would end with Molly drunkenly sobbing her heart out, but Mary would know what to say. Even John would be better than him, and John's _useless_ at things like this. In fact, the only person who'd be worse at this than he is is Mycroft, and he would be glad of the fact that such trifling matters concern him so little.

"Would you like me to…" he trails off, not knowing how best to phrase it.

"What?" Molly mumbles, her fingers running along the hem of the breast pocket on his shirt.

"Exact revenge on your behalf?"

Molly sits bolt upright. "You mean _kill him_?" she gasps.

"_No_," Sherlock says, dreading to think what it says about him that that was her first thought. "No, I mean…you know. I could…_rough him up_ a little, if you wanted me to."

"Oh," Molly says, relaxing back into her prior position, her fingers now tracing the stitches around the edge of his pocket.

"Do you…_want_ me to kill him?" Sherlock asks delicately. A number of scenarios run through his mind, but as soon as Molly says "No, of _course _not," he shuts them down and forgets all about them.

"What about roughing him up?" he continues. "Teach him a lesson. I'm sure John and Lestrade would volunteer to join me."

"No," Molly says, but she's smiling now, albeit sadly.

"Shame," Sherlock says. "Would have been nice to see him cry instead."

His phone vibrates in his pocket, and Molly glances up at him. "Ignore it," he says, though he's just been struck by a far less brutal, but by no means less substantial punishment for Tom. "I could…" he begins slowly, pausing before his next words, which already taste like poison in his mouth. "…text Mycroft."

"Mycroft?"

It pains him that his brother's position of power is the only thing that can really be of any use now. That there are some things that even he, Sherlock, cannot do, and worse than that is the fact that it's for Molly. He can only offer her the opportunity to see that Tom becomes a punch bag for an evening, or else has some sort of tragic accident. But Mycroft…Mycroft can see to it that he really gets his comeuppance.

"I'm sure he'd be very interested to hear about a Ukrainian national exploiting women in an attempt to gain British citizenship. I'm sure he'd like to be certain that it doesn't happen to anybody else. Although if he's only got two months left he'd have to work fast, but…"

Molly doesn't say anything, and he can tell she's mulling the idea over. She's not one for revenge, he knows that. She's far too forgiving, although he knows that Tom will not be forgiven to the extent where she decides putting that ring back on her finger would be a good idea. She doesn't get off on punishing people. Live and let live. Bad things happen to good people and that's just _life_.

But not this time. Bad things should happen to bad people, and bad things certainly _will_ happen to Tom. Maybe not today, or tomorrow, or even this year. But one day, some small irritation will be the first flake in a snowball of problems - a bank card being declined, a car breaking down, a job lost. The list expands exponentially, and when he starts to consider whether burning his house to the ground is a shade _too much_, he realises that Molly hasn't outright objected to the Mycroft solution.

"If you don't say anything otherwise, I think my finger might just slip when I next text Mycroft."

"I don't want him to do it to anyone else," she says with a sigh. "I don't…" she takes a deep breath, and he can see the tears building in her eyes again. "I don't want anyone else to have to feel like this."

He doesn't understand how one person can be so selfless. How, even mere hours after the severity of Tom's lies has been exposed, she doesn't want revenge for the sake of making herself feel better, doesn't want him to feel even one percent of the pain that she feels. But another human being feeling like she currently does is her biggest concern when the question is asked. No shrug of the shoulders and an offhand comment that it's the least he deserves, just the prospect of someone else falling victim to him.

"Leave it with me," he says, and presses a kiss to the top of her head. She shrinks into him, her hand coming to rest over his heart. He doesn't say anything else, knowing that empty phrases like 'plenty more fish in the sea' would sound especially heartless coming from him. He has learned these past few years that sometimes keeping his mouth shut is often far more preferable for those around him than opening it. Now especially strikes him as a moment to apply this rule, with Molly being as broken as she is. He strokes his thumb across her shoulder blade, back and forth, falling into rhythm with her breathing. The soothing repetition calms her, and eventually, he knows she has fallen fast asleep.

Sherlock awkwardly fishes his phone from his jacket pocket, careful not to wake her, and opens a new message to Mycroft, into which he types a name, an address, and one, final word.

_Deport_.

Moments later, the questioning reply comes.

_Why?_

Sherlock rolls his eyes and rapidly types an explanation, hoping that a few short sentences will be sufficient for Mycroft to make the call.

_Does Miss Hooper know you're barring her once-husband-to-be from the country?_

_She objected to me paying him a visit._

Mycroft doesn't reply to that, and so Sherlock assumes that the deed is as good as done. He puts down his phone, ignoring another text alert from Lestrade, and wonders how long Molly will sleep for. She is emotionally drained, so she might not awaken until noon tomorrow. That's the thing about feelings - they tire you out, chew you up, and spit you out. He'll put her to bed later, but for now, she's comfortable and content as can reasonably be expected. A stray strand of hair is clinging to her face, and, oh so carefully, he moves it, tucking it behind her ear. He lets out a slow breath of relief when she doesn't stir, and stares ahead, reminding himself every so often not to fidget, lest he disturb her.

Mrs Hudson brings him some tea a short while later, and while he's drinking it, Lestrade comes clomping up the stairs like some sort of neanderthal. He's about to say something, but at the sight of Sherlock, with Molly curled up on his lap, fast asleep, his words die in his throat. He enters the flat, treading softly now, hands dug deep in his pockets.

"D'you get my text?" he asks.

"Yes."

"Didn't think about replying?"

"More important things, Inspector."

Lestrade looks down at his feet for a moment, then up at Molly, and finally, to Sherlock. "She all right?"

"The wedding's off," Sherlock replies shortly, his voice low. "Turns out he was a complete scoundrel."

Lestrade frowns. "How so?"

"Molly can tell you if she wants," he says simply. "But you're going to have to deal with this case on your own, Lestrade, I'm needed here."

"Sure?" Lestrade asks, raising an eyebrow.

"Positive," Sherlock replies crisply, his patience wearing thin.

"All right," Lestrade sighs. "But if you change your mind, you know where I am."

He leaves, descending the stairs quietly, and Sherlock looks down at Molly's sleeping form. He won't change his mind. That he is quite sure on.


	2. Chapter 2

**A/N: **Well, Sign of Three was a roller coaster, wasn't it? This doesn't have any spoilers for that in, so not to worry if you haven't seen it. Thanks to those who reviewed the first part, you all make me very happy indeed. I'm back to work tomorrow so writing time will be more limited than it has been of late, but I do have a writing to-do list as long as my arm, so keep an eye out for the mass of Sherlolly fics heading this way. :)

* * *

**Seeing Clearly**

**by Flaignhan**

* * *

She's warm and comfortable. She knows that the pillow isn't her own, but all the same, it smells familiar, and that brings a smile to her face. She can hear traffic outside; the diesel roar of the cabs, the whine of scooters, and the screeching of ancient bus wheels as they pull away. She pulls the duvet up over her shoulders and snuggles into it, sighing softly. Yesterday hardly seems real. The argument with Tom feels like a distant memory, and Sherlock's attempt at comfort feels like some bizarre dream. It did happen though, she has to forcibly remind herself of that, but it did in fact happen.

She opens her eyes, glancing around at the unfamiliar space. She's never been here before, doesn't recognise any of it. She sits up, trying to ignore the dull ache in her chest, and looks around. It's all fairly plain - olive green walls, dark wooden furniture, nothing of any real significance. She turns towards the door, and on the adjacent wall there is a poster of the periodic table. She smiles, putting two and two together, before she gets out of bed and heads into the lounge. He's sitting in his armchair, dressing gown on over his clothes, legs crossed, fingers steepled and resting against his chin. She's in two minds as to whether she ought to disturb him or not, but when one of the floorboards creaks underfoot, he turns his head and sees her, frozen on the spot.

"Ah, Molly, he says with a smile, standing up. She relaxes, just a little, still unsure of what exactly happened the previous night. The last thing she really remembers is being curled up against him, inhaling the scent of his aftershave.

"Morning," she says uncertainly.

"Afternoon, actually," he replies, hanging back near the fireplace. "Mrs Hudson's just cooking some breakfast, if you'd like some?"

She doesn't know what to say. Surely she's already outstayed her welcome, and she has the sneaking suspicion that Sherlock didn't sleep at all last night, because she was in his bed, so her guilt levels are sky high without her lingering for breakfast.

"I'm having some," he says abruptly, and she notices that his hands are in his pockets, his expression, though neutral, much warmer than she's used to. She knows he's been different since he returned, my _God_, she knows that, but it still catches her off guard, when he looks at her with genuine…affection? No, affection is too strong for Sherlock. She can't put her finger on it, but he's much more open to the idea of letting people in, these days. Maybe that's what two years alone does to you. Looking back at all those times she'd been alone in the lab late at night, wishing he were there and not on the other side of the world, she thinks it was worth it. She hopes he feels the same, though she knows he didn't have a smooth ride. Little phrases here and there tell her enough, and when he had first returned to her, in the locker room at Bart's, he had held himself stiffly, his lips twitching when he moved a little too carelessly.

"Yeah," she says, pushing her thoughts away. "All right then. Thank you."

He turns sharply and heads towards the kitchen table, sweeping aside a pile of papers which flutter to the floor. Molly frowns, and, with considerably greater care, Sherlock moves the remains of his experiments to the counter, then opens a drawer, scowls, and slams it shut. He opens the next, and the next, and the next, until finally, his face brightens upon finding what he's looking for. His hand dives into the drawer and with an unnecessary amount of clattering, he pulls a handful of cutlery out and throws two knives and two forks onto the table. He flicks the kettle on, opens one of the cupboard and takes out two mugs, before tossing three teabags into the pot.

Molly leans against the wall, watching him curiously. She's never seen him so domestic, even when she's been in the flat before. It's always somebody else who makes tea - John or Mrs Hudson. Never Sherlock, and she thinks that he's even just demonstrated his version of _laying the table_. She's using the term loosely of course, but for someone like Sherlock it's rather a large leap towards being house trained. He can't keep still while he's waiting for the kettle to boil, fingers tapping on the counter, impatient huffs, and when the water starts to simmer, he stalks over to the fridge, yanks it open and pulls out the milk. On his way back, he hooks his foot around the leg of one of the chairs and yanks it out, then glances at Molly. She understands the instruction quite clearly and takes her seat, fidgeting with the cuff of her jumper while she waits for Sherlock to finish with the tea.

"Here we are!" Mrs Hudson says brightly, gliding into the kitchen with a plate in each hand. She sets one down in front of Molly, and another in front of the empty seat opposite. She shakes her head at the scattered cutlery and dodges around Sherlock so she can fetch the salt and pepper from one of the other cupboards.

"This looks _amazing_," Molly says, closing her eyes and allowing the smell to seep through her. There is no cure for a broken heart quite like finely cooked bacon in her mind, and Mrs Hudson has truly outdone herself.

"You be needing anything else, love?" she says, setting the salt and pepper on the table. "Brown sauce? Ketchup? Sherlock hates ketchup on a breakfast but I quite like a little bit on my egg - "

"You don't _need_ ketchup if you have beans," Sherlock says impatiently. He pours the tea into the mugs, adds a drop of milk to each, then slides into his chair, a mug in each hand, and passes one over to Molly.

"_Thank you_," Sherlock says pointedly to Mrs Hudson.

"Yes, thank you," Molly says, almost forgetting her manners.

"I'll leave you to it, shall I?" Mrs Hudson says with a smile, before she bustles off, out of the flat and down the stairs.

"If you want ketchup, there's some in the fridge," he says distractedly, cutting his toast in half before tearing a bite out of it.

Molly smiles and looks down at her plate, wondering where she ought to begin.

* * *

"This is ridiculous."

"It is the _least_ ridiculous thing we have ever done."

She can't help but smile at his use of the word 'we'. It sets off all sorts of overly analytical and optimistic thoughts in her brain. Does he think about the things that they've done as a 'we' a lot? She supposes the main 'we' thing they did was her helping him fake his own death, and she supposes that yes, this is slightly less ridiculous than that, but only slightly.

"Why do you even _have this_?" she asks, not looking at him, knowing it will break her concentration.

"It's useful. I thought you might see the point to it."

"Practice? Don't you think I get enough of that already?" She successfully manages to extract the wishbone without incident, and she sets it down, letting out a breath she hadn't realised she'd been holding.

"Of course I don't think you need _practice,_" he says, as though she's being stupid. "But it helps maintain high concentration levels, acting under stress, steady hand…"

She passes the tweezers to Sherlock, and he frowns down at the game, wondering which body part to pick out next. After some hesitation, he goes for the heart, the broken heart, specifically, which Molly has been avoiding for obvious reasons. Maybe he's just dealing with it for her so it doesn't mock her any longer. His hands move so delicately, and so carefully as he clasps it between the tweezer points. She inhales sharply when he very nearly touches the side, but after a deep breath, he is able to remove it smoothly and soundlessly. He smiles, proud of himself as he drops it onto the table.

"Mycroft always messes that one up," he tells her, his smile twisting into a smirk.

"Mycroft?" she asks incredulously. "You and Mycroft play _Operation_?"

"Well," Sherlock says with a sigh, passing her the tweezers, his fingers brushing against her own. "After he became too predictable at poker and too _fat_ for Twister, we were left with very few options."

Molly smiles and looks down at the game. It's one of those times where she doesn't know whether she ought to take him seriously or not, and in her heart of hearts she hopes that every word he's said to her is true, just for the sheer insanity of it. But, even if it isn't, he's going out of his way to make her smile, and as she goes in for the spare ribs, she decides that that is just fine with her.

* * *

It's getting late, and she supposes she ought to go home, but every time she even thinks about it, Sherlock comes up with something else for them to do. The breakfast things had been pushed to one side to make way for new experiments, dangerous ones involving bunsen burners and too confined a space. He'd called them indoor fireworks, while she'd seen them more as a health and safety hazard. He'd also been through his case map with her, telling her the details of the more curious ones, and also confiding in her which streets he'd like to be investigating on next, to give a sense of symmetry to his pin points.

It's half past eight when Sherlock's phone rings, and he rolls his eyes, slides his thumb across the bottom of the screen, and answers.

"Still not caught your killer?"

She supposes he'll be going out on a case now, which will likely bring him to Bart's tomorrow. Even with the day over, at least she'll have something to look forward to tomorrow, even if it does involve a murdered corpse on her slab.

"Well," he says sending a feigned look of impatience towards Molly. "I _suppose_ I can come and take a look."

She smiles, and his mouth twitches at the corners, before he turns away and faces the window, staring out onto the street below.

"All right," he says, "I'll see you in twenty minutes."

He ends the call and slides his phone into his pocket, then shrugs off his dressing gown and snatches his jacket off the back of the desk chair. He throws it on, and Molly stands up, heading towards her own coat, which has been neatly folded and left on top of the footstool, her scarf coiled on top of it.

"I'll get going then," she says, winding her scarf slowly around her neck. She's dragging it out as long as possible, knowing that when she gets home she'll be faced with the fact that she is, once again, all alone in the world. "Thanks for, well, everything, really." She's becoming nervous again, now that she wants to tell him how she feels, even if all she wants to communicate is gratitude. She can be silly with him, no problem, and she can be serious too, but being sincere is a whole different ball park, one that sets her heart racing, leaves her skin covered in goose pimples, the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end.

His eyebrows crease into a frown as he buttons up his coat. "Aren't you coming with me?"

It feels as though the world has fallen out from under her. Even after all they've done today, he _still _has the patience to keep her around? He can't normally handle other humans for longer than a few hours, John being an exception, but mostly because he likes his own space as much as Sherlock does, and that just _works_.

"Thought I'd outstayed my welcome to be honest," she mumbles, hoisting her bag onto her shoulder and gazing down at the floor.

He dismisses this with a shake of his head. "Don't be ridiculous. Are you coming or not?"

"I'm still in yesterday's clothes…"

"Molly, they're dead, they're hardly going to be criticising."

"But - "

"Besides, I'm going to need someone to cast a medical eye over everything, aren't I?"

Molly doesn't know what to say. She doesn't want to be a burden, doesn't want him to feel responsible for her current situation just because he knew more about Tom than he ever let on. But then he holds out his hand, and all her fears about being a nuisance are washed away in less than a second. She steps forward slowly, then, with his eyes following her every move, she takes his hand.

"Excellent decision, Molly," he says briskly. "Now, let's go and do Lestrade's job for him, shall we?"

Molly laughs, and allows him to lead her out of the flat, down the stairs, out of the front and into the night.

* * *

**The End.**


End file.
